Chapter Twenty Five.
“Kill allee Pilate.”
“This will be your station, Lynn,” said Blunt as they passed along inside the thickest wall till they reached the bale bastion, where the manager halted. “You take that wide loophole shelter yourself at the side; there’s a capital place for resting your rifle, and with such a steady support, and as you will be able to cover so wide a sweep of the enemy’s advance, I shall expect you to make a good score.”
“A good score!” said Stan in a tone of voice full of disgust. “Any one would think I was going to shoot at a target.”
“At a good many targets,” said Blunt.
“Yes, human beings. You don’t really mean to say you want me to kill as many of those unfortunate wretches as I can?”
“Unfortunate? They haven’t proved to be unfortunate until they are badly beaten. Yes, that is what I mean. I want you to kill or disable every one of the enemy at whom you can get a shot.”
“And do you think I could be so bloodthirsty?”
“I think you know us all pretty well here, and would be sorry to see us cut to pieces by a set of savages who are coming down in full force to the attack.”
“Cut to pieces!” said Stan contemptuously.
“Yes,” continued Blunt sternly; “cut to pieces—literally. I am making use of no high-flown figure of speech. I know from what I have heard and seen that these piratical Chinamen, after shooting down the people they attack, finish by spearing or beheading every fallen man; and then the braves, as they call themselves, go round with their big razor-edged swords and hack their victims to pieces.”
“Ugh!” ejaculated Stan, with a shudder of horror.
“I think you will see that it is better for you to help us to the best of your ability with your rifle and bring down as many as possible. Mercy is a fine thing, and I dare say I should be content with taking a man prisoner who dropped upon his knees and threw down his arms; but Chinese pirates neither drop upon their knees nor throw down their arms. Now look here, my lad; you are young and naturally shrink from shedding blood, but this is no time for being squeamish. You are not going to fight against ordinary human beings, but against a set of fiends who live by robbery and the murder of their victims—men, women, and innocent children.”
Stan was silent for a few moments, and in that short period his face grew so lined that he looked years older.
“Is this perfectly true, Mr Blunt?” he said at last in a husky voice that did not sound like his own.
“On my word as a man who is about to stand up and face death, and may before an hour is over be lying on his back with his dead eyes gazing straight up beyond the clouds. You hear me?”
“Yes,” said Stan firmly.
“And you’ll do your best for the sake of those who would be ready to encourage you if they were here, for our sake, and for your own?”
“Yes, I’m quite ready now,” replied Stan firmly.
“That’s right. Then shake hands, my lad.”
“What for?” asked Stan.
“Because,” was the reply, given in a grave, solemn tone, “we may never have the chance again.”
“You think it is as bad as that?”
“Quite,” was the reply as hand pressed hand. “There! we shall be at it soon, and I’m sorry, Lynn. When you first came I thought I should always detest you as a young meddler sent here to be in my way.”
“But you don’t think so now?” said Stan, smiling.
“Quite the contrary, my lad. There! we’ve talked enough. Only one word or so more. Keep cool, load steadily, and fire only when you feel sure of your man. Never hurry. Recollect that one carefully taken shot is worth a score of bad ones, which mean so much waste of ammunition. There! I’m off now to talk to the rest. I’ll come and be with you as much as I can.”
“Thank you; but I can see what you have done. You’ve put me in one of the best-sheltered places, and you are going to expose yourself in the most dangerous.”
“You are only partly right, my lad. I have not put you in one of the best-sheltered places, but I am going to expose myself in one of the worst as much as I can, and that is here—the place where I have stationed you.”
Stan’s next words slipped out unconsciously:
“Why have you put me in the most risky place?”
“Because I saw that you liked shooting since you brought your gun and revolver, and I gathered so, too, from your conversation and the way in which you handled that rifle. Now are you satisfied?”
Stan nodded, and the next minute he was alone, but with men at all the loopholes near.
As soon as he was left to himself a peculiar chill came creeping over him. Blunt’s words seemed to be ringing in his ears about being face to face with death, and in imagination he pictured the aspect of his newly made friend lying stark and stiff gazing up into the skies. He would have given anything in those brief minutes to have seen him come back, not to act as a shield from the firing too soon to begin, but so as to have his companionship; for, near though the others were, the little bastion seemed to be horribly lonely, and the silence about the great warehouse too oppressive to bear.
But as the boy—for he was a mere boy after all—stood at the opening with his hand grasping the barrel of the rifle whose butt rested between his feet, and gazing out at the glittering river, his image-forming thoughts became blurred; the figure of Blunt passed away, and another picture formed itself upon the retina of his eyes. There before him were the smoking ruins of a native village, and, so horribly distinct that he shuddered and turned cold again, there lay in all directions and attitudes the slaughtered victims of the pirates’ attack, and all so ghastly that the lad uttered a peculiar sibilant sound as he sharply drew in his breath between his teeth.
The next instant the chill of horror had been swept away with the imaginary picture—imaginary, but too often real in a country where the teeming population hold human life to be cheap as the dirt beneath their feet—and Stan, with his brows knit, was carefully cocking and uncocking his rifle to see if the mechanism worked accurately, before throwing open the breech to take out and replace the cartridge, when he closed it smartly and looked out at the coming junks, which glided nearer and nearer like fate.
They were so nearly within ken now that Stan could see that they were crowded with men, each a desperate and savage enemy.
“I wonder whether I can hit the first one who takes aim at me. I must or he’ll hit me,” muttered the lad. “But I shall have to be quick or he may hit me first.”
He had hardly dwelt a moment upon this thought before he heard Blunt’s voice in the long, narrow opening between the tea-chest wall and the buildings proper of house, offices, and stores, where the soft, shuffling sounds of feet could be plainly heard—sounds which Stan, who had been long enough in China to recognise them, knew to be caused by the collecting of the coolies.
Proof was afforded the next minute by Blunt’s brisk voice addressing them with—
“Now, my lads, I want you to fight your best for us. How many of you can manage rifles?”
There was a few moments’ silence, and then a deep voice said:
“No wantee lifle. Takee big ilon clowba’, sha’p chip-chop knifee. Kill allee pilate, evely one.”
“That will do. Wait, then, till the wretches rush in, and then use the bars and your knives. I see you mean to fight.”
There was further shuffling of soft feet, and though he could see nothing, Stan knew that the big picked Chinamen, whose muscles were hardened by their tasks of handling and running to and fro over gangways with heavy bales, casks, and chests, were being posted in places of vantage ready to receive the enemy when they landed at the wharf and made their first onslaught.
Stan turned to watch the junks, whose sails were now lowered as unnecessary and stowed lengthwise to be out of the way, while great sweeps had been passed out, not to urge on the vessels, but to keep a little way on and make them answer the steering-gear, the force of the current being enough for the enemy’s purpose, which was to lay them alongside the wharf after—as was proved ere long—a sharp discharge from their clumsy artillery.
“How long they seem in coming!” thought Stan, though in reality the time was very short; and then he started, for Blunt had come close up behind him unperceived.
“Here I am,” he said. “We are all ready, and our people are waiting for you to open the ball.”
“For me?” cried Stan, who felt startled.
“You. You will fire the first shot when I give the word. That will be the signal that I consider the enemy sufficiently close, and the men will begin picking the wretches off. I say, look; clumsy as the great craft seem, they come on very steadily and well. There is no confusion. See what a line they keep of about a couple of hundred yards apart. Their captains are not bad sailors after all.”
“Yes, they come on slowly and surely,” said Stan in a sombre tone.—“I wish I didn’t feel so nervous.”
“It’s quite natural,” said Blunt. “I feel just as bad as you.”
“You do?” cried Stan, staring. “Nonsense!”
“Indeed I do,” said Blunt. “I’m in what schoolboys call a regular stew. Every one in the place feels the same, I’ll venture to say. It’s really quite natural; but as soon as the game begins—”
“Game!” cried Stan bitterly.
“Oh, very well; drama, if you like. I say as soon as it begins we shall all be too busy to feel fear, and be working away like Britons. Here, it’s going to begin sooner than I expected. By your leave, as the porters say, I want a look through my glass. Yes,” he continued as he carefully scanned the leading junk, “they’ve got a big brass swivel-gun there, and they’re loading it. How’s your rifle sighted now?”
“For two hundred yards.”
“That will do nicely. You shall have a shot soon. But they’re going to let us have it. Keep well in cover. I hope the lads are all doing the same.”
“Yes, they’re going to begin,” said Stan excitedly. “Bravo, good eyes! How do you know?”
“Because I can see a man going along the deck with something smoking.”
“That’s right. Yes: I can see it. It’s the linstock or slow-match. Keep under cover, for we shall have a hail of ragged bullets of all kinds directly. They’ve laid the gun, and the man is waiting to apply the match.”
“Yes: I can see that too. Look out: here it comes. I saw the smoke seem to make a dart downwards.”
“Quite right; and I can see with the glass that the burning end is resting on the touch-hole.”
“But it doesn’t go off,” said Stan excitedly.
“No; the priming must have been knocked off, or be damp or badly made. It’s a failure, certainly. There! I wish you could see with the glass; it’s all as clear as if it was close to us. One of the men close to the breech of the long piece is priming it again.”
“I can’t see that—only that the men are busy,” said Stan as the great leading junk, with its leering eyes, glided onward till it was somewhere about a hundred and fifty yards from the wharf and being swept closer inshore. “Now then,” cried Stan; “look out!”
For he could just distinguish the downward movement of the smoking match, which was followed directly after by a couple of puffs of smoke, one small from the breech, the other large and spreading, followed by a bellowing roar, almost following a strange rattling and crash as of stones about the face and surface of the wharf. There was a dull pattering, too, over the head of the watchers, and dust and scraps of stones ran down the front of the building.
Stan made some remark, but it was drowned by a deafening roar—nothing to do with barbaric artillery, but coming from the throats of hundreds of men, beginning with those in the first junk, right along from those which followed, to the very last; and to make the sounds more ear-stunning, men began belabouring gongs in every junk with all their muscle brought to bear.
“Nice row that, Lynn,” said the manager coolly. “Just shows what fools these barbarians are. Of course, you know why they beat these gongs?”
“To frighten us, I suppose,” said Stan.
“That’s it; and I don’t feel a bit alarmed. Do you?”
“Pooh! No; but I did feel scared when the charge of that big swivel-gun came rattling about us.”
“Yes, and with reason, too,” said Blunt quietly. “Their ragged bits of lead and scraps of iron make horribly painful wounds. I don’t want to get a touch of that sort of thing.”
The moment the booming of the gongs ceased, Blunt drew back and shouted to know if any one had been hurt by the discharge of the great swivel; but though he waited and called again, he had good proof in the silence that no one was injured.
“Do you hear there?” he cried again. “Is any one—”
His words were drowned by a roar from the enemy’s gun, almost accompanied by the snarl-like noise made by its great charge, which came hurtling against the chests and bales this time, though a good half spattered angrily over the front of the stones.
“We mustn’t let them have it all their own way, Lynn, my lad, or they’ll come on with a rush full of confidence and do too much mischief. Now then, the distance is easy. Look yonder in the front of the junk: what can you see?”
“Two men pulling out the rammer of the long swivel-gun, and another pointing it, as it seems to me, exactly at this loophole.”
“I don’t believe he is, my lad, but it looks like it.”
“Now he’s taking the—linstock—don’t you call it?—from the man who is holding it, and is going to fire.”
“Don’t let him,” said Blunt sharply. “Take aim. Ready? Fire!”
In obedience to his companion’s orders, Stan had dropped on one knee, taken a long and careful aim, and then drew trigger.
For a few moments the soft grey smoke hung before the lad’s eyes and hid what was going on; but he did not waste time. Throwing out the empty cartridge, he began to fit in another, and as with trembling fingers he reclosed the breech he whispered sharply:
“Did I hit?”
“I fancy so; the man sprang up in the air and fell backwards. You’ve no time to look, so take it from me. They are carrying the man away.”
Stan drew in his breath with a hissing sound, but no time was given him to think of what he had done, for Blunt’s voice made him start, as he was bending over him.
“Loaded?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Take aim, then, at that man with the match. He is shifting the gun a little to allow for the distance the junk has floated with the stream.”
“Yes; I see.”
“Let him have it, then. Sharp! He must not fire that piece.”
Stan’s rifle rang out, and the Chinaman dropped behind the high bulwark and was seen no more.
“Load again, stupid!” cried Blunt, for Stan half-knelt behind the opening from which he had aimed, looking stunned and motionless, impressed as he was by his terrible success. But he started into active life again under the spur of his companion’s fierce words.
“Keep on firing slowly and steadily, Lynn,” said Blunt in tones which made the lad feel that he must obey, though the compunction was dying and he knew how necessary it was to render the big piece useless by checking the efforts of the gunners.
He fired again just in the nick of time, and the man who now held the linstock dropped it and stood gesticulating to his companions.
“You’ve missed him, Lynn,” said Blunt angrily. “Look! he has picked it up again.”
Stan needed no telling that he had only startled the gunner by sending a bullet close to his head, and before he could fire again a puff of smoke darted from the mouth of the piece, and Blunt struck him sharply across the back, spoiling his aim so that the bullet from his rifle went anywhere.
“Why did you do that?” he cried sharply, for the blow stirred him into making an angry retort, as he gazed through the smoke at his comrade. “I’ve done the best I could. I’m not used to this sort of—Why—what—Mr Blunt!” he cried, as he saw a peculiar look in the manager’s face, and that he was leaning sideways against the wall of bales. “Oh! you’re hurt!”
The manager tightened his lips and nodded sharply before letting himself subside, gliding down half-resting against the defensive building, and saving himself from falling headlong in his faintness.
“Here,” cried Stan, letting his rifle rest on the top of the bale from which he had fired, “let me bind up the wound. Where are you hurt?”
“Hah!” exclaimed Blunt, as if mastering a spasm of pain. “Never mind me. Go on firing, my lad. Don’t you see how close they are in? Fire away, and shout to the others to keep it up. Stop them from loading if you can; it may scare the next junk from coming on.—Ah, that’s better!”
For the sounds he heard were pleasant to his ears. There was no need for Stan to shout, and he took up his rifle again in obedience to his orders and went on aiming at the men on the junk who seemed to be most prominent. Firing was going on all around, and from the upper windows of the warehouse as well, the consequence being that the men at the sweeps fell one by one; and then the two men handling the huge steering-oar dropped away, with the result that, instead of the great junk being laid alongside of the wharf for the pirates crowding her to leap ashore, they were carried on down-stream, with her captain and officers raging frantically, till the chief man received a bullet through one of his upraised arms and sank back into the arms of a subordinate.